


Quagmire

by Syllis



Series: Seek To Mend [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: Vaermina's dread artifact has been destroyed, quelling the nightmares for the people of Dawnstar. But no one walks away from Vaermina's displeasure this easily. Marcus thought the Prince of Nightmare's threats laughable-- what could she do, when Marcus' own memories are worse than anything else he could imagine? Vaermina doesn't always steal memories. Sometimes she gifts them back. Sometimes she gifts them back with a little something extra, and now Marcus is being followed by mysterious elves.Now, trapped in his own mind and stalked by his accusers, he understands.One never leaves Quagmire.





	1. Waking, Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: Marcus' life has been pretty terrible up to this point and he's suffered a great deal of abuse, sexual and otherwise, so his thoughts and dreams are terrible; and he does not end up in a good place by the end of this work.
> 
> Many of my stories are illustrated; Marcus' will not be, for those reasons-- though he'll get a picture or two throughout.
> 
> This story is set in time immediately subsequent to Golden Knight and before the short works Assumed Win and I've Got My Eye on You. It's before Marcus goes to Winterhold and meets the Arch-Mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [FourCatProductions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions) magnificent [Waking, Dreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833522) which still gets me choked up!

Marcus knew these crumbling green roofs. He was in the Imperial City, under a brooding sky. But he’d lost his bearings in flight and got turned around. Marcus hesitated and looked back along his route, debating whether to retrace his steps. He could hear the dogs baying after him, and the shouting of his pursuers in the distance. Rain spattered over him, cold and harsh, and he began to move faster. Lightning cracked, far too close. Marcus' feet slipped on the slick tiles, and then his fingers, clawing for a grip--

Marcus sat up with a start. He was in Skald’s jail.

The ribbon-beaded broiderie linen sheet twisted about Marcus as he rolled over and whimpered, breathing terror; it was safe here, he told himself breathlessly, it was safe. He alone held the key. There was no one here. In his threshing, he accidentally kicked another decorative pillow to the floor, and the scent of lavender mingled with the soot of the burnt-out candles. Marcus panted, eyes shut, trying to settle his breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart.

It was not enough-- Marcus had to get up and walk. The cool inlay of the mosaic embedded in the wooden floor soothed his feet as he paced back and forth, alone in that too-large and too-lavish apartment. As the sky paled, he could see the rooftops of the Blue Palace, lapis-hued against the grey dawn. He could feel the perspiration along his back and sides beginning to dry; the nightshirt no longer sticking to him. 

The sky was getting brighter now; it would be all right-- 

Pain sharp enough to cause him to see stars, as Marcus' own hair yanked at his scalp; he'd caught it under his arm somehow. Marcus ducked his head down and curled up tighter into the corner, trying to hide more of his face. He was at the Argonian Assemblage, praying that no one would set eyes on him tonight. Dully, he wished that his hair were not so much in the way. He wished he could cut it all off, but it would never be permitted. The welts on his legs still ached from his last transgression. Shuxulti’s raspy voice rose over the din. Marcus shuddered.

The woven rag of the rug under Marcus’ cheek felt wet where he had been sick-- but it was not so disgusting that he had to move right this moment. There hadn’t been food for a few days, so it was only bitter water. Marcus was on a rooftop someplace in the City, his eyelids painfully heavy with fatigue. It would be better, Marcus knew, if he didn’t move. He’d been told Caro's crew was out looking for him, again.

Anvil: Marcus' mouth was so dry from the sugar and he was so tired; Marcus leaned against the too-warm brick and shut his eyes, just for a moment. He could not sleep now; the Argonians had their spies; they would know, but--

Marcus was in a ditch, under a layer of snowy brush, so cold that he could no longer feel his hands. Marcus knew that he should get up, should move, that there was danger, but he could not remember what the danger was. His thoughts had gone sluggish. Footsteps crunched nearer. Marcus burrowed in a little deeper.

With great effort, Marcus managed to slide out beneath a meaty arm and away from its grasping fingers. He was in somebody’s bed; in several somebodies’ bed. He managed to get down and scrabbled around on the sticky floor for his clothes. Too dizzy to stand, Marcus kept stumbling, pretending not to hear the now-querulous voice. The door. Where was the door? Frantic, he patted at the wall. He could not find it. A hand gripped his arm, and then the back of his neck.

Falkreath: Marcus was at a table in the rear of a smoke-filled tavern, sitting with his hood down and listening to the men talk. Monitoring the tone of the conversation, if not its words. It would be all right, he knew, to close his eyes. But he couldn’t rest. His heart was beating too fast.

Down in Riften's foul-smelling Ratway, Marcus curled his arms about another whore, seeking warmth. The two of them shuddered as the cold rain came down in sheets outside the iron-gridded window, filling the room with cold mist. Despite the chill, the other young man was running with sweat, acrid with skooma-stink, his teeth chattering, even as his fever rose. Marcus dug in his chin and clung tighter, willing the drug to pass off. Sometimes it killed like this. Marcus had tried healing magick already and it had done nothing; now he was spent and couldn’t even keep himself warm.

Anvil again; the Argonians were talking in their grumblings and hissings; Marcus was sure it was about him. No luck for Marcus this week or the last; it was the strap for him again. The Argonians wanted him to find a good patron. They were annoyed.

Bruma this time; Marcus was in the corner of the kitchen, small enough that he could stay out of sight under a bench while the women worked. He was not supposed to be here, but so long as he was quiet, they would all pretend that they hadn’t seen him. If Marcus moved or made a noise and got caught by the steward or the cook, they would have to put him out. The women all felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to have to deal with-- 

Marcus laced his fingers behind the back of his neck, lying still and gazing up at the limitless expanse of stars, while the Khajiit spoke to each other in their own tongue. What did the cats mean to do with Marcus? It did not even matter. If Marcus went back to the City he was dead.

Riften, sitting on yet another musty bale of straw, waiting interminably in the Cistern with nothing to do. In an hour or two, Marcus would have to go back up to the house and deal with Vekel and Tonilia. They wanted to speak to him about his behavior again, and he was dreading it. Maybe he would go out again. He might as well, if they were going to yell at him anyway. And it would be easier than listening to them, to Vekel, to that voice which sounded just like--

Marcus was lying on his side, braced against a man who was not merely a man-- the dragon souls tussled and tumbled about inside of the Dovahkiin as he snored-- and below all of this, the unblinking gaze of the wolf. In the shadow of the predator, Marcus drifted into slumber.

Marcus' nose was tucked against warm fur and he was all wrapped up in a rug. The lady Khajiit’s tail flickered anxiously in sleep and came to twine about Marcus in swift embrace, even though he was not her kitten. He wished he were.

A backhanded slap woke Marcus from sleep. Angry voices. His ears rang from the blow, and from too much brandy.

Marcus sat up with a start. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. He drew three breaths and rubbed his thumb along the coarse canvas of the mattress, testing the sensation.

He was in Skald’s jail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcus on the rooftops of the Imperial City


	2. Playing Sick

Carefully, Marcus reached out to rub his fingertips across the splintered part of the wooden bedframe, feeling where the rough wood threatened to snag against his skin. He could smell the autumn smoke from where the guards were burning piled leaves outside, and the roasted oysters that had been supper tonight. Marcus took another few breaths. Nothing changed. The magicka currents in his cell drifted lazy and slow. There was a bruise on Marcus' hand, and when he prodded at it, it ached.

So. He was awake. This was real.

Marcus tugged his shirt away from his body to untwist it and shook it loose, brushing the wrinkles out of the flax-colored linen. He listened:

His guards were sound asleep, in the other room. Marcus slipped out of the bed and moved to watch the hallway, for a time. There should be a man stationed right there to observe Marcus-- and there was not. So Marcus took the shards of wood from the place where he’d concealed them, and set to work.

“Talos! What are you doing?!”

Marcus' shoulders hunched. “Trying to figure out how to re-lock this door. I got it open, but for some reason I can’t get the latch to trigger shut now.” He joggled the lock again, more roughly this time. “Might’ve gotten a splinter caught," he said, a little sheepish. "Sorry. Was in a rush. Wasn’t feeling real good.”

The Stormcloak shift-captain drew breath. Then he thought better of it, and made a weary gesture. “Just-- sit on that chair. Don’t move from it.” That chair just outside Marcus' cell was supposed to be occupied by a guard. The Stormcloaks made their rounds; but they were soldiers, not guardsmen. The Stormcloaks vastly preferred the comfort of the dayroom; and Jarl Skald didn’t like the way his jail was now run, that was just too bad. Maybe they should be released back to regular duty and the Pale Guard put back in charge of it.

“Okay.” Marcus sat down in the chair, agreeable. “Might need to run to the privy again real quick.” 

After a little while of watching the Stormcloak shift-captain and his men toss Marcus’ cell, Marcus began to squirm around in the chair. “You know what,” he said, with a soft groan. “Privy. That’s where I’m going to be for a bit.” 

No one stopped him; in fact the shift-captain saw where Marcus was headed and got out of his way. So Marcus was pretty certain he’d gotten the facial expression and the painstaking walk just so. Behind him the Stormcloaks continued to sift through his belongings. There would be nothing of interest for them to find.

Marcus had half of this lavish little jail all to himself. Lucky him. At least it wasn’t too cold in here.

All of Skald’s other prisoners were crammed into the cells in the other half of the jail, on the far side of the guards’ assembly room. Most of these men were still pending interrogation. Fifteen smugglers, thieves, murderers, traffickers, pirates and worse, all crowded in with only three Stormcloaks to watch them. Five more guards over here on this side with Marcus, as well as the shift-captain. Just to keep an eye on one small Imperial. Life was not fair. 

The stone floor of the privy was a reeking uncomfortable bed, but Marcus had known worse. Having long since discerned the Stormcloaks’ routine, Marcus waited. Not much longer until shift-change. The key that Marcus wanted to use was sitting behind a loose brick on the left side of the unlit hearth in the dayroom-- he’d grabbed it off someone's belt during a card game earlier and managed to stash it. No one had confessed its loss.

Marcus groaned from time to time, and moaned as if in pain. He made disgusting noises, for verisimilitude. He waited. After some time he heard the tread of iron boots.

“Well,” said the shift-captain, from halfway down the hall. “We’re changing over. I’d put you back, but I guess no point to that, hey? Let Lars know when you want to go back to bed.” 

These were soldiers, not guardsmen. Confident in their own abilities and not particularly invested in the question of what would happen should Marcus escape. What they wanted to do was get back to their dice game. And the privy was much further down the hall from the dayroom than Marcus’ cell. If they locked Marcus back up in there just now, and he had an accident, they were the ones who would have to deal with the stink.

“You hear me?” 

Marcus buried his head in his hands again and groaned to answer the shift-captain, as though still in the throes of illness. He coughed, rackingly. A little trick he’d learned from observing the elf. No one would want to linger to watch Marcus. The clump of boots retreated. Marcus was left alone. 

When he started to hear more activity, Marcus got up and went to the dayroom. The new shift was coming on, so it was more crowded than usual, with Stormcloaks coming and going. Lots of distraction. “Can I get cleaned up?” Marcus asked, and he must have looked piteous and hollow-eyed indeed, because one of the women who’d just sat down got up to get him a towel. He put the basin on the floor, knelt to pour the water into it, and then suppressed another groan.

“You alright?” asked the Stormcloak woman.

“Going back out to the privy,” Marcus said wearily. “Might want to leave me alone for a bit.”

“Want to play fours, Greta?” asked one of the other Stormcloaks. To Marcus: “Sorry, kid. Try not to make too much of a mess.”

“Eh, I dunno,” Greta said. “Think I’ll just take a nap instead. Maybe if I get some rest I won’t come down with this belly-gripe going around.”

Marcus left the room, still clutching the towel. It helped to conceal the large bronze key in his hand, held along the underside of his arm where nobody could see it. He could hear the woman talking to the other incoming guards about him as he went. Whatever disease Marcus had, the Stormcloaks didn’t want it. So they were giving him plenty of room. 

It had to be tonight. By tomorrow some of the prisoners might be cleared and released, and then it would be much more difficult for Marcus to find out what he wanted to know. He had no chance of making his way into the other side of the jail undetected. And disguise was right out-- many of these soldiers seemed to know each other already, and it wasn’t good odds that Marcus would be able to pass as a Stormcloak even if he could find a woman’s kit. He’d probably be too short even for that. So, Marcus would have to be quick and get in there during the shift-change.

His bare feet made no sound on the stone floor.

Thane Yorvik himself was coming down to brief the guards, tonight. Marcus would get some time while that was going on. Marcus hoped maybe even as much as half an hour. There were three locked doors between himself and the other side. The brass key opened all of them. He skipped the first few cells; those were evidently townsmen. He moved quickly, before any of the prisoners could get the idea to raise the alarm. 

Ah, here they were.

A sailor’s splayed feet are unmistakable, and this particular gentleman still had ship’s tar tagging the ends of the braided lumps of his hair. Marcus crouched down near the bars. Not ideal. It would have to do.

“Open the door, then we’ll talk,” suggested the sailor. "Name's Hanse."

“Tell me what I need to know,” said Marcus. “Then we can talk about where you’re going.” 

To Oblivion, Marcus hoped, but unfortunately Hanse was cooperative with him. So Marcus would keep his word, and speak to Yorvik about him. It didn't matter. Marcus wasn't as concerned about the rank-and-file of the Blackblood Marauders. He wanted to know who had been in charge of the horror he had witnessed on the Icerunner.

“Icerunner was full of the rotting dead,” whispered Hanse. “A death ship. I was more’n happy to move cargo and get the hell out of there with the first load.” He leaned forward. “What’s the Imperials doing with all those dead bodies?” 

"I wouldn't know." Marcus sat all the way down on the floor. "What did your people think of all that?"

"Thrynn thought it was necromancers. He said it was the elves. Them Thalmor. Making the Imperials do it. Taking the bodies of our own people to the necromancers!" He nodded with great conviction, wide-eyed. "So the elves can raise revenants against us, to walk through the night and steal even more of us from our homes.”

"Do you know where the Icerunner last hailed from?" Marcus gestured, frustrated. "What port?”

Hanse the sailor did not know. But he was willing to answer more of Marcus' questions. Hanse's terror had just confirmed it: the Blackwater Marauders had come looking for cargo, and found horror.

“Get Yorvik,” was all that Marcus said, once day shift came along. “Do yourselves a favor and don’t tell anyone else I’m out here; just go get him.” The Stormcloaks grabbed Marcus by the collar and hauled him back to the dayroom. Thane Yorvik himself happened to be walking in.

Thane Yorvik groaned when he saw Marcus. "Just leave him here. I'll take him to my office."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcus breaking out of Skald's jail cell. Or, possibly, back in.


	3. Coming Apart

"That's what Hanse said all right-- Icerunner was a death ship!" Marcus told Yorvik, dancing from foot to foot despite the Stormcloak guard's firm grip on his upper arm. "All of those bodies were aboard before the Blackblood Marauders ever saw her!" 

The Stormcloak guard holding Marcus' arm looked less impressed. "You sure about this?" he asked Yorvik.

"Wait outside," Yorvik said to the guard.

As soon as his arm was released, Marcus bounded into the small room like a salmon headed upriver and whipped around to face Yorvik. "So it has to be the Thalmor who're doing it! That's where all those people are going! The Thalmor keep stealing more and more of them and locking them up in Northwatch Keep until they're rotting and--"

With a disapproving look, Yorvik waved Marcus quiet. "Hold off a moment. Let's get settled." He closed the door behind them and sneezed, wiping his face. "Sorry about the dust." 

Marcus looked around the storage room that Yorvik was using as an office. Logbooks and papers were stacked up everywhere, and Yorvik had set a board across a couple of ship's boxes to serve as a makeshift desk. Yorvik sat down on another crate-- it had a green cushion on it-- and pulled a slate towards himself before gesturing at Marcus to begin.

Marcus was still bouncing on his heels, breathless. "I've had a few days, you know. To put it all together. Icerunner was carrying Thalmor prisoners from Northwatch Keep. Well, former prisoners, mostly. Because almost all of them were dead. And it was the Imperial Navy who--" He stopped. Oh, no. Yorvik was a former Legion man, would he get angry with Marcus when Marcus cast all this blame on the Legion?

Yorvik was just sitting there, looking at Marcus with tired eyes.

"Wait. Um...maybe I've got things mixed up?" Marcus decided to be cautious. Yorvik didn't seem to like him moving around, so Marcus got up onto a crate to sit. "So what exactly is supposed to be happening to the Talos prisoners? Officially, I mean."

Yorvik cleared his throat, frowning. “Per protocol and regulation, detainees suspected of Talos worship are handed off by the Thalmor Justiciars to the Imperial authorities. At handoff, the Imperium conducts an inspection of the detainees to make certain that there have not been abuses; and then the detainees are sent on to Bruma for trial,” said former-Tribune Calvus Quintus Yorvik. “It used to be that detainees were handled by the Justiciars stationed out of Markarth. That’s why there's a Justiciar-Commander is stationed out there-- or at least, that’s one of the reasons.” 

"Oh." Marcus felt a bit deflated. "Kind of like Imperium-level crimes. Like treason." Not a mystery at all; just like any other crime that the Emperor might take an interest in. Now Marcus felt like an idiot. Maybe it was all this lack of restful sleep. There was too much gritty dirt on top of this crate for comfort, and Yorvik didn't seem to like him any better, sitting. Marcus looked around for another perch.

Yorvik coughed and dabbed at his eyes. “Indeed. After the trials in Bruma were concluded, the Legion would escort any still-recalcitrant Skyrim natives back to Helgen for execution. Not these days, not with Pale Pass still closed by that avalanche caused by the dragon.” Yorvik grimaced. “So it is true that ever since the dragon attack at Helgen last year, we do not actually know what the Thalmor are doing with the persons they have detained." 

"Oh. We don't?" Marcus brightened a little.

"_I_ don't," said Yorvik, dryly. "I fell off the need-to-know list when Heljarchen raised the blue banner." 

"Oh, I know exactly what happened! All those dead people we found on Icerunner?" Marcus displayed a breezy confidence he no longer felt. He climbed up a stack of barrels and sat on top of it, legs dangling down. "All of the Thalmor left Haafingar right before the Incident. Not just from Solitude itself, but from the Thalmor Embassy and Northwatch keep. Elves were gone at least a week before the Icerunner ran aground. Maybe ten days. Leaving Northwatch Keep full of prisoners. What do you want to bet the Thalmor ordered the Imperials to bring the Icerunner down to Northwatch Keep, just so they could load her up with those bodies and take all the evidence of their wrongdoing away?" He drummed his heels against the barrel, for emphasis.

Yorvik just sat there, radiating dislike. He hadn't made a move towards his stylus. Marcus could read his his thoughts, plain as day: Marcus had already made a great deal of work for Thane Yorvik; now here Marcus was again, to make more. Also he disapproved of Marcus, on principle. Marcus hadn't needed Erdi to tell him that, but she had. At length.

"I talked, you know." Marcus wrung his hands, anxious to be believed. Listen to me, listen, don't just look. "To the ladies we rescued. The ones who were able to tell me things. None of the ladies who came from Icerunner could give me more than a general location, but they said all they saw were Thalmor elves, until the very end. Then Imperials came to take them out of the cells and make them get on the ship. How many fortresses are there along the shore that have deserted silted-up harbors? The only one I know is Northwatch Keep.” Marcus gestured back towards the row of cells. “And Hanse back there was pretty motivated-- I don’t think he’s lying.”

Yorvik prodded at his slate with distaste. "It does make a certain degree of sense. We know that the Thalmor have not stopped taking suspected Talos worshippers into custody. Heljarchen took a complaint originating from Whiterun recently." Yorvik moved a shoulder as if to indicate: there was nothing that he could do about it.

"So what's happening to all those people? Are they being taken up north to ships as well?" Marcus willed Thane Yorvik to wake up, to pay attention.

"Well, the Thalmor currently have no easy route to Cyrodiil," Yorvik grudged him. At least he was thinking about what Marcus had said. "Their only reasonable option other than sea travel would be a transfer through Craglorn Pass and Elinhir followed by a jaunt around the tail of the mountains." He made a small note. "Travelling through Hammerfell would require a herculean diplomatic effort on the part of the Dominion, I would imagine." Yorvik considered, and then shrugged. "Might be that the Thalmor started moving detainees to Northwatch Keep to transfer them out via ship; and then what with all this disruption-- it sounds like they were making an attempt to remand to the Legion.” 

"Making an attempt, my ass." Marcus flushed angry-hot. "Not one of those elves bothered leaving behind food or water. Go ahead and make excuses for the elves, why don't you? They meant for every single one of those people to die. And the Legion-- you think they bothered to help these people? Too much work. They went right along with it, just loaded up the living alongside the dead. It's a fine day when pirates act better than our own."

Yorvik's gaze flickered, but he didn't take the bait. It would take much more, Marcus sensed, to rile him. Yorvik tapped the stylus against the frame of his slate, thoughtful. "Why bother. That is a good question," He glanced back up at Marcus. "Why is it, do you think, that the Thalmor would go to all that effort of moving bodies? Why not leave Northwatch Keep full of the dead?"

“Maybe it's just that the elves don't want their deeds known?" Marcus' feet were beginning to go numb. He began to swing his legs back and forth. "Right now all anyone knows is that the Thalmor come and disappear people. It’s terrifying. If everyone knew that those people were just being locked into a prison to die, that’s hardly mysterious.” His lips twitched back in a wolfish smile. “We can take care of that.”

Yorvik said, mildly: “Soon enough.”

“You should have heard that Justiciar. My uncle's elf. He outright denied that the Thalmor kept prisoners at Northwatch Keep. At all. Bastard. Assuming that guy really is a Justiciar. I doubt it." 

"Oh, your uncle's friend is a Justiciar, no doubt of that." Yorvik's tone of voice didn't alter, but the hairs at the back of Marcus' neck prickled at Yorvik's simmering hate. "Mind you, that may be the one thing that creature said to me that was the simple truth." Yorvik wrote a few words down. "You do know what you are alleging, yes?"

Marcus shook his head.

"You are accusing the Thalmor here in Skyrim of being in gross violation of the White-Gold Concordat-Haafingar Attachment in regards to the care and handling of detainees." Yorvik tugged a cloth out of his sleeve and rubbed it over his high forehead before tucking it back in his sleeve. "And you wouldn't be the first to make those allegations, so no surprise there. But you may be the first to offer more than conjecture. The Legion involvement and lack of care-- again, that's no more than we've suspected for some time. The elves could not commit such crimes without their collaborators in the Legion." Yorvik mused. "But now, it it appears that we have--" His stylus tapped. "Survivors. Witnesses. Perhaps I should suffer no more regrets for handing in my oath."

"Sooo... what're we going to do about it, then?" Marcus' right hand hand had moved to where his dagger-sheath wasn't, making the gesture foolish rather than threatening. Flushing hotter, Marcus pretended to scratch an itch. Yorvik wasn't fooled.

"Oh, we could just take you up to the Thalmor Embassy and set you loose," Yorvik said. He was making fun of Marcus, but--

"That'd be alright," said Marcus, carefully. "I know some people up there in Haafingar, might want to help. I'd need to get my weapons back." He frowned, thinking of the Embassy; of the number of Thalmor soldiers he'd seen around Castle Dour. It wouldn't be easy. Marcus didn't think, on his own, that he could stop the elves but-- "We could do some damage."

"You really would try, wouldn't you?" Yorvik's eyes had creased with genuine amusement, this time, and Marcus could sense him thawing. "There may be better ways to do the elves some damage. With a pen, not a throat-knife. It's a little cumbersome going one-by-one, isn't it? First I would need to substantiate any accusations made."

Marcus didn't understand.

"Let's talk about the facts we have on the ground before coming up with theories about what the Thalmor have or have not been doing, shall we? When I tender my report to Jarl Skald, I'd like to have it backed up by solid proof. Not just the usual conjecture."

"Oh." Marcus looked at Thane Yorvik, doubtful. "Evidence? I don't think I have that. Just what the ladies say, and they're real fragile. It would probably take a lot to get them to be able to tell you things straight out. Oh, and Hanse." As if the word of a scabby-looking former pirate was going to convince anybody. "So that's not real proof," Marcus said. "Just some people who would say they saw some things."

"Hm," said Yorvik. "Let's start with what we know from the beginning. The flight of the Thalmor from Haafingar is common knowledge, yes? When did the Thalmor go; where did they go, and when did they return?"

"That's easy. People've been performing songs all about that already," said Marcus. "So the bards at the College know. The Thalmor sailed off from Solitude Harbor on the twenty-second of Heartfire to go to Jehanna. They came back, um... on the ninth of Frostfall. Two days after the city was re-taken by Tullius."

"Where did you first encounter the Blackblood Marauders?" Yorvik asked.

"Long time ago. You can't be around dockside in Solitude without running into Jaree-Ra."

"An Argonian, I take it? What's his role?"

Jaree-Ra's the Blackblood Marauders' factor in Solitude. He, um, hired the Dovhakiin to put out the lighthouse so Icerunner and Brinehammer would wreck..." Marcus' voice trailed off, because the expression on Yorvik's face was shading back towards contempt. He disapproved.

Yorvik made a jerking motion with his stylus-- go on. 

"Anyways," Marcus hesitated. "Unless you count us talking to him, it was about a week-- maybe less--when our camp in Hjaalmarch got attacked at night by the Blackblood Marauders. For no reason!" Marcus gestured as to how they had gotten ambushed: muffle spells and magery. "We killed all of the pirates pretty fast, too, so we couldn't ask any questions. Ma'dran wasn't happy." 

"Ma'dran the Khajiit caravaneer?"

"Yeah. We-- that was me and the Dovahkiin-- joined Ma'dran's caravan after we ran into my uncle. My uncle and Erdi and that Thalmor elf were already there. They hired on with the Khajiit to get supplies, my uncle said. 'Cause none of them had anything after fleeing Solitude. So they had no choice."

Yorvik made another small note. "Didn't that Thalmor Justiciar bring anything along?"

"Nooo," said Marcus, puzzled. "He wasn't of any use. Didn't even have hardly any money. A couple septims. I mean, I saw what all they had and it was nothing. Armor and not enough clothes to wear beneath. They borrowed weapons and camp gear from Ma'dran."

Yorvik's gaze was serious: "So you believe that little story your uncle told, about how he and that Thalmor happened to fall into company with each other? That it was by chance? Your uncle wasn't specifically targeted?"

Huh. Now that was a disturbing thought. Marcus didn't know.

"That whole story sounded too messed up to not be true." Marcus shifted around to tuck his legs up crosswise, since the iron rim of the barrel pressing into his thighs was about the last thing from comfortable. "Erdi didn't tell me any different, though. Maybe go ask her?"

Yorvik grunted. He made a note. "Go on with what you were saying about the pirates."

"Next day after the attack, our scouts came back saying they could hear voices along the beach, so I went out at dawn with magicka-sense and found the Marauders." Marcus demonstrated how he'd done it, by putting his head in his hands against a barrel like he'd done to the rocks, to try to listen through the ground. "They had Illusion magicka, to hide themselves from the shore while they looted Icerunner."

"Were the Blackblood Marauders by themselves on both occasions? Or were there others amongst them?"

"All of them had the same tattoo." Marcus traced the pattern across his own cheek and neck. "Even their mages. Some of them had 'em hid with magicka, but once they were dead...you could see it."

"Were any Dominion troops-- mages, soldiers, and so forth-- present at any time?"

"Nope," said Marcus. "Not that night and I didn't see any later on the Icerunner. I looked over all the bodies later. All Legion soldiers and Blackblood Marauders. I saw an Argonian and a lot of Nords and Bretons and some guy I thought maybe was from Hammerfell, but no elves of any kind. Not one. No cats, either. And you know, going to back to what Hanse said, when I scouted, all I saw was Blackblood Marauders working their asses off. They looked-- " Marcus thought about it. "Honestly? I thought the pirates were just working fast and quiet to keep from messing up the Muffle spells, but from what Hanse said, they were scared shitless and wanted to get their salvage off that death ship. Quick." 

"Oh, I'll speak with Hanse next," Yorvik promised. "As well as your ladies and some of the other sailors. What happened after your party discovered the Blackblood Marauders looting Icerunner?"

Marcus groaned: "See, this is where I was stupid. The cats wanted to attack, and the Dovahkiin couldn't talk Ma'dran out of it. So we went along with it. Somehow I let that Thalmor be in charge of the fighting. He just kind of took over. My uncle let that happen, too. He's a damned fool."

"As may be," Thane Yorvik agreed.

" I had to run signal so I didn't see most of the fighting. By the time I Iooked around, all of the Blackblood Marauders were dead. Again. Ma'dran was pissed. Kharjo wasn't happy either."

Yorvik took a swift note: a name. His neck and bald head had reddened. "Did that Justiciar have anything to do with eliminating the wounded?" Yorvik asked, his voice sharp.

"Probably. Somebody'd had to have given the order, 'cause that's what Erdi was doing." Marcus scratched at his scalp. "Don't think she would've done that on her own." Marcus thought of what Erdi'd done to General Istvir. "Well, maybe she would've. But he was the one in charge, and he didn't stop her."

"Which of your party went below decks first?"

"Ma'dran's cats chased a couple of pirates down there. So the cats were the first to see it. Ra'zhinda came up to get my uncle--" 

Yorvik made another note.

"--and after my uncle saw it, he uh--" Marcus swallowed. Thoughts of the hold of the Icerunner made Marcus feel as sick as he'd been pretending to be, earlier. "My uncle was upset with me about-- ah. Putting out the lighthouse. Wanted me to come and see the kind of things that pirates can do. I ah--" Marcus wiped some of the cold sweat off his upper lip. He couldn't look at Yorvik.

Yorvik gave him a moment. 

"What did you see down below?" the thane asked, more gently.

"Not too much. It was kind of dark. Lot of bodies." Marcus shuddered. He could smell it now, what it had been like delving into that greasy-water'd hold, through that thick wall of stench. He squeezed his own nose hard, to stop himself from gagging. "Some were floating loose but most were crammed into one of the rooms off the hold. They were stacked almost as high as the ceiling? Bloated and stinking, the worst smell you can imagine. And that wasn't the worst of it--"

"Hold on," said Thane Yorvik, in his soothing voice. "I wanted to hear more what kind of people these were. Did you see all kinds of folk or just humans?"

"Oh, just Nords," said Marcus. "Pretty sure."

"That was your general impression? Even in the dark? From their clothing, or--"

"Most of 'em were naked," said Marcus. "So not that. Size, maybe? The way their faces looked? The ones who did have clothes, they were all in rags. So skinny you could barely tell they were human. They almost looked like revenants." Marcus rubbed at his own arms, where the sudden perspiration had made him cold. "The ladies we found still alive? They didn't look any much better."

"I'll tell you," said Yorvik. "All that was a puzzle to us, so I'm glad it's resolved. We've dealt with Blackblood Marauders before; and while they're a blight on Dawnstar, that particular group of pirates generally does not mistreat prisoners. They prefer to collect ransom. That's their reputation." He noted down what Marcus had said and looked it over. "What did that Justiciar say when he saw the bodies in the hold?"

"He never did. He didn't go down there-- my uncle stopped him." 

"But he knew."

"Oh, yeah, we were all talking about it, right afterwards. Hey, you know what? Northwatch Keep even came up. My uncle's... that Justiciar denied it. Said the Dominion didn't take slaves. We knew that was a lie. But when he said that the Thalmor had nothing to do with the Icerunner, not one of us doubted him on that, for some reason. We all just came away believing that the Blackblood Marauders had starved all those people to death and stuffed them in Icerunner's hold."

"You said earlier that your uncle's elf--" Yorvik cleared his throat. "That Justiciar was an Illusion mage?" 

"Oh yeah." Again, Marcus' hand touched where his dagger-sheath should have been. "Saw that when he got sick and couldn't maintain his magicka. His whole appearance changed. I should have killed him then. I'm sorry I didn't."

Yorvik, writing, clicked his tongue to soothe Marcus, meaning: you'll have time. He kept writing with great concentration.

"I guess that elf must've have done something to us, because I mean, normally we aren't that stupid," Marcus went on, his voice bitter. "Because-- does it even make sense? The Dovahkiin and I made that deal with Jaree-Ra to put out the Solitude Lighthouse barely a week before we found those wrecks. And the Blackblood Marauders were still working on the Icerunner. Still looting it." Marcus hesitated. "Doesn't it take a long time for people to starve to death?"

"Well, now, that depends," said Yorvik, after he'd finished his thought. "Men do starve much faster if they don't have drink, and if they're under stressful conditions."

"Five of the six ladies we took alive from the Icerunner looked-- you could set your hand in between their ribs," said Marcus. "You could see every bone on their spines. They looked just like the dead. But I didn't really think about that, until some of them were able to talk to me--"

"I got quite a statement from that sixth lady, earlier." Yorvik reached for a small leather notebook and opened it, glancing it over. "What did she look like when you first saw her? Any different from the others?"

"She looked bad-- sick as hell and covered with shit-- but her clothes were still pretty much intact. The other ladies were down to rags. And she was in bad shape only because she'd gotten hurt. Broken ribs, a broken arm. Bad cuts from where someone with a gauntlet hit her in the face. The others weren't all worked over like that. Also she was thirsty and hungry, but not down to skin-and-bones and half-mad."

"Did she talk to you?" Yorvik's brow had creased. He read something in his notebook and went back to writing.

"Not a lot," Marcus said, waiting for Yorvik to finish. "Had the rattles pretty bad and it was hard for her to breathe."

Thane Yorvik leafed over to another page. He frowned. "So how far gone were those bodies in the hold? How long do you think they'd been in there? Could it have been more than a couple of days?

"For sure. Those bodies were starting to come apart." 

"Further along than, say, the dead Legion soldiers on the deck?" Yorvik asked.

"Yeah," said Marcus, glumly. "I don't know how in hell every single one of us missed that. We should've known that those bodies in the hold had to have been loaded on ship before the wreck, too. Argonians can breathe underwater, so maybe we thought--" He shook his head. "Only one Argonian was out there, even. A lady with gold bracelets and a fancy hat. Even if Argonians could have loaded those bodies-- it would've been tricky to maneuver them through the water." Marcus began to pick at the threadbare material of his pant leg. "Stupid of us."

Yorvik cleared his throat. "Oh, you were gulled. The Thalmor are very clever that way." 

"Yeah." Marcus stayed unhappy. "Where did those other two Blackwater Marauders ships end up? We thought maybe the Marauders had filled up a ship already. Going to unload and sail back and pick their crew up later."

Yorvik smiled, thinly. "That's what happened. Dawnstar Harbor. Cleared in by a certain city guard, and still in the process of unloading cargo into an unregistered warehouse when we caught them. Not cargo from the Icerunner, though we found some of Icerunner's goods in the same place. Yet another suspect haul."

"Ah," said Marcus. He didn't want to think about--

"How exactly were the Thalmor involved in the sabotage to the Solitude Lighthouse?"

"Um?" said Marcus. "I'm really not sure, because me and the Dovahkiin never spoke with the Thalmor ourselves. Jaree-Ra caught us between jobs. We were dropping off some of the artifacts from the dig at Ustengrav to our buyer in Solitude. We could see what was going down in town, and Jaree-Ra wanted to know, did the Dovahkiin want to help out the Stormcloak cause?" Marcus shrugged, helplessly. "We got told that putting out the Solitude Lighthouse would keep General Tullius away from Solitude long enough for Ulfric Stormcloak to 'cut off the head of the Imperial re-occupation in one stroke.' Of course the Dovahkiin couldn't resist."

"And that wasn't even a lie, because it nearly worked." Yorvik sighed. "I was told--by your friend the Justiciar, no less--"

"Not my friend," said Marcus, reflexively.

"--that the Haafingar Incident was nothing more than an attempt by the Thalmor to create as much disruption as possible in Skyrim by handing Solitude over to Ulfric. Forcing a siege of Solitude would have subdivided both Stormcloak and Imperial forces, prolonged the war itself, and ultimately have cost Ulfric more than he ever could have gained."

"I tried to tell the Dovahkiin." Marcus put in. "He doesn't listen."

"It's equally possible that the Justiciar was just trying to get me to pull my men out of there so that the Stormcloaks wouldn't take Solitude, which in effect is what happened." Yorvik sniffed. "Your uncle really is being a fool for the Thalmor."

"My uncle says he's only got the blinders on when it comes to his own elf," said Marcus at once.

Yorvik snorted.

Well, it was good to know that even if Yorvik didn't like Marcus, Yorvik agreed with Marcus. Maybe somebody could make Marcus' uncle see reason. 

"Do you know what kind of deal the Thalmor made with Jaree-Ra?" Yorvik asked.

"I asked. I got told that the Thalmor had nothing to do with the Blackblood Marauders," Marcus said, slowly. "Or at least, that the Thalmor hadn't meant to have anything to do with them. My uncle's elf was acting like he was very angry at the Thalmor agent who'd spoken to Jaree-Ra. Maybe that was for real. Erdi told me that it was pretty obvious that the Thalmor agent was too stupid to know that Jaree-Ra was playing him for a catspaw. Jaree-Ra played the Dovahkiin, just the same, and I was dumb enough to follow right along and help douse the flames. And murder that poor caretaker." Marcus' teeth ground together. Like a fool Marcus had trotted along right beside the Dovahkiin, as always. Without thinking of the consequences of what they were doing, at all. "Oh, ah. Were you, um, planning on sending word to Haafingar about that lighthouse? Guess I probably shouldn't have confessed to another crime."

"We're at war with Haafingar," Yorvik observed. "So call it crime or act of war, I reckon that incident is Haafingar's problem to solve. Not mine. You've got enough troubles right here in the Pale."

“Skald going to take care of these guys?” Marcus said, gesturing back towards the cells to indicate the pirates and their merchants. “What’s the penalty for piracy, as compared to torture and mass murder? Hey, maybe they’ll get off lighter than they feared.”

Yorvik’s faded blue eyes just looked wearier: “Oh, it’s death,” he said, ignoring Marcus’ attempt at humor. “And confiscation of all ill-gained goods and property by the jarl. But, you know, that’s better than death-by-torture and confiscation-of-the-whole, which is what they would have been up for."

“Seems like a waste of time,” said Marcus, scratching at an itch and hoping that he hadn't got bedbugs or jail lice. “I'd rather find the elves who gave the orders, get them done instead.” Maybe that was something Marcus find out. And do something about, at that. “Or do what you said, find some way to use all this to fuck up the Thalmor. Might want to keep your witnesses alive for that, you know."

"Teach me my job, why don't you," Yorvik muttered under his breath; and "I'll talk to Jarl Skald."

“What about me?” Marcus wanted to know. “Did my pardon come through?”

“Soon," Yorvik promised. "Going to tell me how you wafted through Skald’s jail?”

“No. Hey, do you mind having your guy out there take me back to the privy? Think I got a bad oyster last night.”

This time the Stormcloak soldier gave him no leeway at all, and waited just outside the tiny room, impatient. Marcus lingered in the privy just long enough to watch the brass key turn end over end, falling down into the smelly darkness of the pit. At once Marcus recovered, and cheerfully let himself be walked back to his cell.

\-----------------

Marcus thought the dreams would get better over time. Vaermina had been defeated, hadn't she?

The dreams did not get better. They got worse. Much worse, and now waking as well as sleeping. Marcus began to spend much of his time standing in the back corner of his cell. And worse, the constant visitors, to tell him what he should or should not have done. 

Yorvik showed up to talk to Marcus about the Thalmor again; about Marcus' uncle's elf. Marcus didn't have anything much to add, and got out of the conversation as soon as he could. He had people waiting. 

A few days later Yorvik came back to take away Marcus' books and drawings, telling him that it would help. Erandur was with him, and did some kind of banishment and blessing on Marcus' cell. It did not help. Nothing helped.

\-----------------

Erandur returned every day to do some praying at Marcus. Mara this, Mara that. Irritating.

More dark elves stopped in to look at Marcus later, but Erandur was too busy praying or talking at Marcus to take any notice of anybody else.

\-----------------

Thane Yorvik came back. He told Marcus some things that everyone present seemed to think that Marcus ought to care about. 

Marcus did not care. 

Marcus was too busy listening to the latest complaint of his misdeeds, from some dark-skinned elf lady with brilliant red hair. Marcus didn’t know what the dark elf lady was talking about, but for some reason her angry accusations sounded justified. So Marcus nodded along with her. But what should Marcus do now, to make things better? She had no answers for him.

One of the guardsmen had to point it out: the open door; Marcus’ belongings resting in a neat pile just outside. It did not matter to Marcus; Marcus was busy. “What happened to your eyes?” he asked politely. “Is there something that I can do?” Dark liquid stained the bandages and had seeped down to discolor the old elf’s grey cheeks. It was nothing Marcus could help. The old elf was angry, but not about his eyes. About his family.

Someone was telling Marcus something about money. Marcus waved whoever-it-was off; he was too occupied to care.

Skald himself came down to peer through the bars at him. Marcus couldn’t acknowledge the jarl; he was too busy dealing with someone of higher station. A priest this time, with many grievances-- he was demanding to know why. Marcus did not know why. He was trying to soothe the elf priest back down. Skald said, in the echoing voice of a bard: “Get him dressed and get him on that damned boat.” Marcus' head jerked up as the jarl's voice cut through his conversation, but the jarl could wait. He turned back to the priest. Even if Marcus did not know why, was there something that the priest wanted of him? Whatever it was, Marcus could try.

Marcus did not move out of the corner on his own, but he did move when the Stormcloaks came into his cell to escort him out by force. For some reason none of them wanted to look at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Last Resort

Marcus had walked down this cobbled road hundreds of times before, but now he had lost track of where it was that he should go. He looked at the sky again, trying to remember which way was north. Why was he going towards Castle Dour?

Who was there for Marcus to meet? 

When he took the familiar turning, Marcus saw it again: the blackened and fallen-in walls of Jala and Ahtar’s house. His steps faltered. How had he forgotten? Marcus felt like he was moving through a dream. A hawk screamed overhead and a dead leaf tumbled along to brush over Marcus' boot. It crumbled when he plucked it loose. 

Was Marcus even awake? He could not tell. Reluctantly he turned around and began to weave his way uphill again, towards the Blue Palace.

Auryen Morellus' museum was locked up tight. Marcus opened the door to the Safehouse with his picks, but did no more than set his belongings inside. It was not his place to be. Still, he did not wish to be robbed. He relocked the door.

Marcus began to walk down to Castle Dour again, and stopped, uncertain. Marcus' uncle Ahtar would not be there. Ahtar was gone from this place, unless you counted his likeness nailed up on the bounty placard on the stone wall.

A group of soldiers went by, talking and laughing. Marcus followed them to the Winking Skeever, taking care to stay out of hailing distance. He didn't want to look towards the marketplace, but his eye was drawn towards it anyways. 

_You look like you could use a ripe apple._

Jala, chasing Marcus down to press a pastry into his hand; to make sure he had a clean shirt; to make sure he knew to come home.

Jala's booth stood vacant.

Lisette was there at the Skeever, but Lisette would not want to see Marcus just now. She had a new patron sitting with her. Marcus hoped, a patron. 

Marcus looked around for Jorn and Ataf, but they were not here. Fironet wanted him to sit down with her for a few minutes, to wait for someone, but there were too many people crowded into the Skeever for noontime dinner, and too many of them wanted to talk to Marcus. It made him nervous. He had thought of something-- he frowned. Had that damned elf of Ahtar's suggested it? No matter. It was a good idea, to go and see Viarmo at the Bard’s College.

Marcus took the time to go and have a real bath first, and to have himself shaved and his hair dealt with, despite the money it cost. It didn’t matter. He could find someplace to sleep tonight. He tipped Ksvana well. The Khajiit barber might let him come in to nap on the heated stone couches if it were slow, later.

Marcus had reached a deal with these odd elves who were following him. He had spent some time listening to their complaints, and at the end of it all had said that he was thinking on what he ought to do. The grey elves had gone away, some reverently and some scornfully. Marcus still had a headache, and he wondered whether this negotiation had all been another dream. But there was a crick in Marcus' neck that he'd gotten from dozing in a chair while waiting for Ksvana, and his newly-healed arm still ached from where Jod had broken it. So Marcus wasn't certain.

Headmaster Viarmo regarded Marcus, critically. “Yes,” Viarmo conceded. “You do have the talent, that is for certain-- but you must understand-- the Bards’ College is not a--” The elf's mouth pursed up in distaste. “A haven of last resort. The students we admit are here because this is their driving passion. They wish for nothing else, but to be bards. We do not take in those who arrive at our doorstep simply because they have no place left to go.”

Marcus continued to stare piteously up at the headmaster, widening his eyes just a bit.

Viarmo finally gave in. He went to a desk near the door to take out a little booklet, already stitched through its signature and pages cut. “Here. Our application. Please take note of the essay questions on the back… and there’s a place for you to attach your letters of reference at the end.”

“My… what now?” Marcus took it. 

Viarmo explained. 

Oh. But how did one get that sort of patron, if one did not already have one? Marcus did not know.

Marcus thanked the headmaster and went away, leafing through the little book with an appropriately student-like expression on his face, pretending to look it over. He could tell from the feel of the parchment and the way that it smelled that Viarmo had crafted it himself. Marcus sat up on the rough stone wall that ringed the yard of the College, and tried to make sense of it again, this time using his magicka in lieu of any skill at reading. The marks on the pages twisted and writhed, making his headache worse. There was a charm on this booklet that had to do with truthfulness. Its strands of magicka formed a clever little knot. A flick of Marcus' fingers broke it and the application became just ordinary pages. It still gave him a headache.

Marcus went looking for Jorn, and found him down in the docks district drinking.

“It’s good to be away from the College for a bit,” was Jorn's only explanation.

Marcus, who was drawing stares, pulled his hood up. “Don’t feel like playing, either,” he confessed. He showed Jorn the papers. “I’ll buy you supper if you can read this through for me,” he told Jorn. “I just got off the ship this morning and my eyes are still crossing. Rough passage.”

Jorn raised a brow when he saw what it was, but grinned: “I think you’ll look back on this as one of your best decisions. I swear it will.” He reached for his satchel and unfolded his writing-desk and set it on the crude table. “I bet I’ve got a better hand than you,” he boasted. “I was going to go to Windhelm to be a draughtsman, before all of this mess with the Stormcloaks. Now my talents are going to be best served in the Legion." Jorn tapped the excess ink from his pen. “So: What’s your full name?”

Marcus froze. 

Jorn was waiting expectantly. 

“I... ah... don’t really know what name to use. Um. Because my family-- there were problems. I mean my brother told me one thing and my uncle told me another, so I don’t really know what my gens ought to be…” This was the part where everyone just looked at Marcus with pity; he braced himself.

“Pick something,” Jorn suggested, heartily. “Anything. I mean, how’s Viarmo going to know the difference, huh?” He grinned at Marcus. “Every good bard has a stage name, right?”

I’ll just use the gens my brother uses,” Marcus said, uncomfortable. “Until I think of something better. Vecellius is the gens.” He shifted around in his chair. “Uh. That's Nibenese. It's the masculine and it takes the ablative," he recited. "So, Vecellio.”

Jorn looked up. “Marcus with a “c” and not a "k"?”

“Sure,” said Marcus. Honestly? He didn’t know.

Jod tapped his pen down into the ink again. “And where do you hail from?”

“I was born in County Anvil, they said." Marcus could barely remember it; just the smell of the sunlight on the leaves of the trellis that shadowed a broad porch. A cushioned chair with a basket of needlework forgotten at its foot. “We moved around," he said. "But mostly in the Imperial City. Couple different districts.”

Jorn gave him a wicked leer. “Talos Plaza District? In one of those big fancy houses?” Being kept there, Jorn meant.

“Yeaaaaah..." Marcus snorted. "Not likely. Rats like me belong on the streets down in Waterfront. But Talos Plaza District will do. Sounds better. So long as nobody checks.”

“Ha, as if Viarmo's got that much reason to care.” Jorn scribed away industriously. “All right. Do you have any impediments lodged against your name or character?”

“Huh?” Marcus struggled to parse the words. Elves. He scowled.

“No idea,” said Jorn, cheerfully. “Unless maybe Viarmo's asking, do you have a bounty anyplace? Have you been to prison? Because the bards don’t really want to endorse anyone that the jarls and thanes have a grudge against. It looks bad when bards get run out of a Hold.”

Marcus decided not to mention that he'd just gotten out of jail. “Well," Marcus said, carefully. "I’m not sure what all that means, either, but there isn’t anyplace I can’t go, if that helps. I don’t have any bounties on me.” Not that Marcus knew about. Skald's housecarl Jod had told Marcus that the wergeld had all been paid up; and Jod hadn't said anything about Marcus being banished from The Pale...

Jorn wrote a small word and blotted the page. He turned to the next set of questions: “So, what Bardic arts are you skilled at?”

“I can play pretty much any instrument if I can get a little bit of time to fool with it,” said Marcus. “Drum and flute for sure. Lute-- yes, most kinds of music. And if it’s a Khajiiti-- whatever it is, I can play it, even the drone and the loudhorn.”

“Do you read music?” 

“A little,” Marcus hedged. Meaning, not at all. “Usually if I hear a piece all the way through a couple of times I can play it alright.”

Jorn flicked his mane-stripe of hair out of the way. “And you sing, of course. Like a skylark.”

“What’s all that there?” asked Marcus, curiously, as Jorn kept writing.

“Just a bunch of foolish questions that aren’t important,” Jorn dismissed. “Why do you want to join the Bard's College; what do you want to do once you are a Bard, just horseshit like that that anyone who can kiss ass could answer.”

“Oh, thanks. I didn’t think after talking with Viarmo that my answers would be any good. He as much as said I couldn’t join the Bards just to get a roof over my head.”

“That why you want to join us, now?” Jorn teased, with an exaggerated frown, in imitation of a disapproving Viarmo.

“More or less, yes,” sighed Marcus, glum. “But if bard's work is the kind of work I’m going to be doing anyway, I might as well get the credential, right? I'm not just some beggar.”

“True,” said Jorn, nodding along. “How are you on recitation? Poetry, psalms, boastings, and so on?”

Marcus made a face. “Doesn’t thrill me. Making up kennings and songs-- that's all right. I can talk the talk well enough, but I'd rather sing.”

“So,” said Jorn, after another full minute of writing. “Now this essay question is asking what you are contemplating as your magnum opus.”

Marcus’ shoulders hunched. “I don’t know. I'm just so tired."

“What have you been doing the past few months?” Jorn wanted to know. “Maybe come up with some kind of theme from that?”

Marcus gave him a look. “Just for that I should tell you that all I’ve been doing is sucking dick.”

“Hey, you want to write a book on sucking dick; maybe that would appeal to old Viarmo. I mean, I bet it'd sell pretty good.” Jorn's pen hand stilled, as he looked at Marcus in concern. “No, really-- where in Oblivion have you been? Nobody’s seen you in forever.”

“I’ve been out hunting dragons. Until I actually found one, that is.” Marcus' hand touched the little bottle secreted in his jacket but he left it be. He didn't need it, yet. “Don’t want to repeat that experience.”

“They’ll love dragons,” promised Jorn, who had started writing again. “And don’t you worry about it. I told Inge Six Fingers that my masterwork was going to be a comparison of the honey-wine songs of Jorunn the Skald-King to the ballads of Rime out of High Rock, and so far she hasn't even asked me if I’ve gotten started yet. And it's been fifteen months!” Jorn laughed. “So I think you’re safe. There you go, you will write a song about dragons for your masterwork.”

“What is all of that?” Marcus wanted to know, as Jorn’s pen kept sweeping along.

“Oh, essay questions,” said Jorn. “No need to trouble yourself; it’s just more flattery, using all the right words and kiss-ups. There-- “ he showed Marcus the last page, neatly scribed to the bottom inch. “How does that look?”

“Thank you,” said Marcus, a bit abashed. “It’s… it’s really good. Probably worth more than just dinner.” He touched the edges of the page. Jorn had really put his heart into this little booklet. Marcus didn't even know him very well. Jorn was one of Lisette's friends.

“Dinner's fine," Jorn told him, pleased. "We can meet up with people later. Lisette’s man likes to go to bed early, so we usually catch up at night these days.”

“Ah,” said Marcus. He looked at the sticky planks of the table.

Jorn nudged him. “Lisette's patron, I mean,” he said. “You know how it goes.” He rolled his eyes to quote Viarmo, making the pursed-lip face again: "It is the privilege of very few to be maintained for art alone." 

Most of the bards of Solitude found other ways to make money, true. No matter what Viarmo had to say about that. Probably Viarmo just thought Marcus was too low-class for the Bard's College. Marcus could understand that, but it didn't make him feel any better. When Jorn bought them both bottles of mead, Marcus didn't even protest. They drank for a little while in silence, watching the other customers come and go.

“I was doing okay for a while,” Marcus said, suddenly. “Excavations for the museum, a little light mercenary work.” He took another drink. “Not anymore though.”

“Broke up with that big guy, did you?” Jorn commiserated.

“He was just a--” Just a trick, he’d told Erdi. “Just a patron,” Marcus finished, lamely. “Were you thinking about heading up top soon? Not really feeling up to being dockside at night.”

“Sure. We can do that. I think everybody else was talking about having a quiet night at the Skeever.” Jorn began to pack up his writing equipment, pausing only to look over Marcus, more critically. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked. “Sure don’t look good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. Burned

“Who wrote this for you?” Viarmo demanded. He shook the pamphlet.

“Is something wrong with it?” Marcus wanted to know, anxious. "I tried to do my best…” he trailed off, because Viarmo didn't believe him.

The headmaster of the Bard’s College went back to Marcus’ application. He flipped through to the end and then began to read it from the beginning. “The Bard's College is not the place for you.” He frowned. "I see no recommendations attached."

“Please,” said Marcus, desperate. “I can do singing and recitation. I can play anything you want. No one’s ever said anything other than that I would be a good bard. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.” Marcus stared up at the tall knot-bearded Altmer, trying to show himself eager to learn. He hoped Viarmo couldn't see the panic that was already building in his chest. "Um. Auryen Morellus would say I play and sing all right and that I've got the right manner. I've played at his receptions. And Thane Erikur's parties, too. But I don't think either of them is in town right now. Oh! And the Dovahkiin. I've written songs for him... but I don't know if he counts as that kind of patron."

“Morellus, eh?” said Viarmo, his thin lips still pursed. "What do you do for him?"

“Usually just background music and helping to serve at museum receptions. One time the jarl was there and everything! Oh, and I help him with relic collecting. I’ve brought some nice items in for him to display. Most recently, a Daedric sword and staff.”

Headmaster Viarmo took a key from his pocket and unlocked a small chest on his desk. He dropped Marcus’ application into it and shut it, with finality. “Many apply here, but very few are chosen. Even of those who meet our requirements. You do not. We cannot take you in if you cannot read or write or notate music; and even in regards to music, it seems that you have a great deal of remedial work to do. This is not a charity school." Viarmo paused, to make sure Marcus got the point. 

"I understand." Marcus waited, miserable.

"But--Auryen Morellus. He’s been very generous with the College. A friend of yours, hmm?” Viarmo relocked the chest. Tell you what. In years past, there have been Bards who have been allowed to enter the College via a non-traditional path-- by doing the College some great service. I do have a task befitting an aspiring Bard, and I'd be willing to keep your application on hold for some time...”

\-------

“And then Viarmo sent me to Giraud."

“What did Giraud tell you?” asked Lisette.

“The last known resting place of this book that Viarmo wants is a Nord tomb. Probably, from the way Giraud described it, already looted. I’ll need to get permission from the local thane and get a crew. Somehow.” Marcus traced a line through the condensation that had dripped on the table. Giraud didn’t even know whether the place was in the Reach or in Hjaalmarch, because it was sort of on the border. So Marcus had some research to do. “No one else is lining up to go get it, Giraud said.” Marcus took a long drink. “Not sure how I’m going to do that on my own. Without the Dovahkiin, I mean.”

“So?” Lisette said. “Go make up to the Dovahkiin and see if he’ll do it for you. Didn’t you say he kept trying to get you to come back?” She grinned. “He seemed pretty easy-going when you brought him around. Maybe you could even get him to pay you more.”

“I dunno if I want to work for the Dovhakiin again,” said Marcus. “Things didn’t turn out so well last time.” 

Marcus could see that there was a crowd at the door; people with wolfskin cloaks and the chink of spurs; wealthy. Lisette’s patron was amongst them, so Marcus picked up his mug and moved on. Jorn came in, and Ataf, and Marcus sat with them for awhile, but he didn't have anything he wanted to talk about. Marcus stuck to drinking small beer, slowly. He didn't have much money.

Lisette came back down after her man left. The bards all went down to the baths to sit around in one of the private rooms and chat until it was late enough that they could come upstairs to play. The Skeever’s lute-player followed them up to play with them in the by-now nearly empty taproom. When the lute-player made some nasty comments about Marcus’ lack of practice, they argued too loudly. A red-faced Sorex Vinius came downstairs, furious about all the disrespect Marcus was showing the establishment. Jorn tried to explain and break it all up, but it was too late. Sorex put Marcus out the door with a hard shove.

Marcus managed to roll to his feet and tried to come back in; he needed to get his things-- Sorex shoved him away and he fell to his hands-and-knees. Sorex kicked out at him just as Marcus tried to push himself up-- and his boot impacted Marcus' face, hard. Bone crunched, and Marcus coughed in shock, as the flash of white blinded him. The handful-sized blots of dark blood startled Marcus awake enough to get him moving, and he began to crawl, slipping on the now-slickened cobblestones, gasping and spitting.

“Stendarr’s fat horn,” said the guardsman, in a pronounced Chorrol accent. “Who the fuck did this?”

“I'll stay put and keep an eye on him,” ordered his senior partner. "Go get the shift-captain." The Chorrol man loped off.

Marcus groaned thickly, and covered his face as best he could. He was going to go to jail again.

\-------

“Here he is,” Fironet's voice was sharp with excitment. “I told you, I wanted him to come and see Marcus earlier, when he was acting so odd; and he wouldn’t stay, and--” she gave a little half-shriek when she saw Marcus’ face.

“Tha’ bad?” Marcus slurred.

“Hold the lamp higher, please,” came a soothing voice.

Another damned elf.

Long Altmer fingers took Marcus by the chin and tipped his face upwards towards the light. “My name is Lorion, and I'm a Master-level Restoration mage currently affiliated with the Temple of the Divines. Would you be willing to permit me to look at your face?"

Since Fironet was looking at him, Marcus grunted resentful agreement.

"Good. This part won't hurt. I'm going to use magicka here, one moment." A few seconds later, Master Lorion sighed with relief. “Broken nose is probably the worst of it,” he reported. "Let's get that tunic off him." Marcus let them tug it free, but he absolutely refused to let the elf remove his shirt or any of the rest of his clothing. Lorion sighed and settled for roughly patting over Marcus' limbs and poking at his chest and belly. Thumbs and long fingers felt over Marcus' skull, touching briefly the thick scar hidden by his forelock.

""M not hurt," Marcus managed. "No! Ju' m'face."

“Do you need anything else, Master Lorion?” asked one of the jail guards. Marcus couldn’t quite see him, but he knew that kind of voice; would have known it anywhere. Imperial City, Waterfront. He didn't sound any too thrilled about the idea of stripping down an angry, blood-spitting Marcus.

“A washbasin and some warm water might be in order,” said Master Lorion, thankfully giving up on the idea of using force. To Marcus: “I am sorry, this is quite a bit displaced. It will be painful.”

Fironet and the guardsman each took a firm grip on Marcus’ shoulders as Lorion wrenched at Marcus' nose. Marcus' entire world shrank to blackness and re-expanded to a furious red starburst. 

“Fucking elves,” Marcus gasped. He had a few more things to say.

“Shut your filthy mouth,” snapped Fironet. "He's trying to fix your teeth, you ungrateful wretch." Lorion shoved his hand into Marcus' mouth and forced his loosened teeth against his bruised gums, hard. His fingers muffled Marcus' whine of pain. Another wash of healing magicka passed through Marcus. As soon as Lorion retrieved his fingers, Marcus spit, and glared back up, as Fironet continued to lecture him.

“That's enough, Fironet,” murmured Master Lorion, unbothered. “There-- you should be all ready to go.” He handed Marcus a warm wet rag. “Wash that blood off, and you should be just as pretty or as ugly as you began. Come see me tomorrow morning an hour before noon, in the common room at the Skeever.”

If he had been a little nicer to Master Lorion, Marcus might have been given more time to clean up. As soon as Marcus got the worst of the blood up, his tunic was tossed at him and he was shown the door. It didn’t matter what other foul language Marcus used; the shift-captain was not inclined to arrest Marcus just so that he could find a warm place to sleep, and he said so. Marcus staggered out of Castle Dour and got himself to the well, and drank half a bucket of water, before going home. His uncle would be so very upset, Marcus had better come up with a really good excuse this time. Marcus had forgotten that he was supposed to come home before midnight, because he might wake up Jala and Jala had to be up well before dawn to get down to the docks, and Marcus' clothes were all a mess, and--

Marcus stopped in his tracks.

Ahtar and Jala’s house was burnt staves and sticks. The roof had caved into an empty, blackened maw.

A small child was laughing at Marcus. At his face?

"Don't you look at me," Marcus said, angry. But when he turned to look, he saw that the elf-child had no eyes, just dark smudges where the caustic tears had run. When Marcus gasped in horror, the child shook her head. As if to say, he had no right to be surprised.

"You did this," the elf-child whispered.

A sharp tug at Marcus' sleeve: “You did this,” hissed another dusky elf, her black hair waving like snakes in the dim. “Don't you like your new home, my lord? We’ve decorated it for you in a fit manner, don’t you think? Does it please you? We’ve remodeled it in the same fashion as you did ours.” The flesh of the hand she extended to Marcus had been burned away; crisp black bones extruded from it, snapping and crumbling away as she grasped at his wrist. 

Marcus screamed and bolted.

Thane Erikur’s house had been vacant for awhile, the now-dead grass grown up long behind the back steps. Marcus lay in the grass, panting for breath, his mouth full of the copper taste of blood and ash.

“Run anywhere you like,” said the old Dunmer, his eyes glinting red even in the dim. He squatted down on his haunches to prod Marcus in the ribs. “Wherever you come to rest, there we shall be. Ah. Is it my turn now? I wanted to talk to you about what happened to my great-great grandchildren. Myself, I’m an old mer and the Three know I’ve had my sins; it doesn’t matter how I go, but my little ones, they never deserved this...”

“You hurt her,” whispered the little boy-elf, his ears nearly as long as the wisping strands of his hair. He held up a dead cat, its fur matted and rank with ash. “She can’t breathe.” Pink froth bubbled from blistered lips as the little boy coughed. “I can’t breathe.”

Marcus whimpered. He drew his knees up and curled down against them to shut out his sight. Around him, the voices did not stop. All Marcus could do was give vent to dry sobs. He couldn't cry. He couldn't ever cry, not when he needed to. His eyes burned.

\-------

“Concussion, probably.” Master Lorion rose from his knees. "I really don't think it's intoxication. You said that vial of skooma you confiscated from him still had its wax seal intact?" Marcus was in the jail again, this time on a bed of loose straw, his clothing rank with sweat and urine. “It could be that he's gotten into something and it's wearing off, I suppose," said the healing mage. "Just keep him here a couple of more days, if you could?”

The jail captain nudged Marcus on the thigh with a hobnailed boot. "Stop wailing. I'm not giving you back your little bottle of fun." The jail captain turned back to Lorion. "You sure we need to do that? He's been a real pain in the ass."

“Less work for your people than rousting him out of the gutter again," said Master Lorion. "What was he doing this time?”

“Went down to where the Bards have their firepit; you know, it’s warm down there at night. But he was grabbing at cinders and rubbing them into his face and talking all kinds of crazy. Didn't fight us or anything when we took him. He just cries.”

“Hm. Well, I’d consider it a personal favor if you could hold onto him. Fironet assures me that this young man is quite congenial when he isn’t out of his head.” Lorion's voice lowered. “And it would just kill me to lose another one, so soon after--”

“No need to fret, Master Lorion," said the guardsman stoutly. "We’ll feed and water him, and if he gets any worse, we’ll send a lad.”

“Particularly if you cannot rouse him,” said Lorion. “I’m headed back up to the Skeever to get some sleep. Have Sorex or Fironet wake me if need be.”

\-------

Someone was shaking Marcus awake. Not the jail captain this time; one of the ordinary guards. “You. The jarl’s steward decided not to charge you, so you’re free to go.” A snaggle-tooth grin at Marcus, when Marcus didn't move. “Free to go means: Get out.”

Marcus felt odd and dislocated, but the dark elves weren’t here to bother him under the full sunlight, so he walked in his reeking clothes back up to the museum’s apartment. He touched the door. Auryen Morellus was still not back. He got what was left of his personal belonging, and stopped by the baths-- Ksvana was not on shift, but by some miracle Marcus had enough cash left to bathe and leave his dirty things for the laundress. He spent some time in the yard of Auryen's museum, packing up his kit and preparing to move on, because the jail guard had been right: there was nothing more for Marcus here in Solitude.

Marcus did not even know where he was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. Nowhere Else to Go

The two women rose and bowed to him.

“Who are you?” Marcus stared at them, bewildered.

“She cannot talk, but she remembers," said the taller woman. "We remember.”

“You should not be thanking me,” Marcus murmured, ashamed. He bowed his head, not wanting to look at the scars on her face. His doing, he knew.

Cool fingers lifted Marcus' chin until he met the woman's gaze, unwilling. 

“Ilona." She smiled at him in kindly amusement. "Remember? Ilona Merida. I'm not surprised you don't know who I am. I probably look a great deal different, just now. Thanks in part to your healing."

"I'm sorry," Marcus whispered. "I'm having a lot of trouble just now, I can't--"

Ilona gently touched a scab on Marcus' forehead. Another, on his cheek. She traced the residual swelling across the mask of his face, and brushed through the stubble of his scalp, finding the burns there. “What is this from? What did you do?”

Irritable now, Marcus tossed his head away from her touch. “Don’t know."

_To make room for the fire._

_The ash is caustic. It burns. Oh, it burns. But it brings the sight._

_I need to see. _

Marcus was being rude. So he tried to tell Ilona, about the elf-lady following him, the one with the grey hair standing in the far corner glaring at them. His throat closed. For a couple of breaths he panted, not just unable to speak those words, but unable to speak words at all. He nearly panicked. When a small, stubby-fingered hand reached over to clasp his, he gripped onto it, steadied.

“Ashes,” Marcus managed, finally. At Ilona's odd look, he cleared his throat. “Firepit embers, the wind kicked up suddenly.”

“Ah,” said Ilona. “Those burns look a little inflamed. I can get you something for it.”

“No, thank you.” said Marcus. “I will be fine. Is--” he looked at the hand he held.

The smaller woman smiled at him and made an odd gabbling noise.

“We call her Caritas,” Ilona told him. “We've both come a very long way since you last saw us, but sometimes she can still get upset. We deal with it.”

It wasn’t really a smile that Caritas was giving Marcus, more of a grimace of acknowledgment, but that was itself a marvel. She’d had no mind at all, when Marcus’d last seen her, and had done nothing in her waking hours but scream. She let his hand go and went back to her chair in the corner.

“The Dovahkiin's in the back,” Ilona told him.

Marcus hesitated. “Um, what are you doing here?” he asked, uncertain. “If that isn’t presuming...”

Ilona laughed. “I’m not his woman,” she said. “Just his bookkeeper. Caritas keeps up with the candles and the lamp oil and the firewood for us. We go through a lot of it.” 

“Caritas?” Marcus questioned. A strange name. 

“Really we have no idea,” Ilona confided. “And she can’t tell us. But it seems to fit.” 

A chill went up Marcus' spine, as he noticed that round-faced little Caritas was cradling a doll and keeping it warm in a small blanket.

“It keeps her happy,” said Ilona quietly, to him. “And we have things here that she can do. Everyone needs to be useful.” She took him by the shoulders. “You’re shaking. Come in before you catch a chill.” Marcus did not resist. She took him to a cushioned bench near the stove and gave him a rag to wipe the drips from his boots.

“The Dovahkiin might be napping," Ilona said, pointing at the curtains screening off another chamber from the main tent. "But you can wake him up.” 

”No need to wake anyone. I can wait.”

“I can take your cloak,” Ilona offered. She took the rag from him and tossed it in a bin next to the door.

“Let’s hold off on that," Marcus said. I don’t know if I’m staying.”

Ilona expressed mild surprise: “There’s nowhere else to go."

How true.

Marcus’ feet warmed, and his boots dried. The rough wool of his cloak changed scent as it became marginally less damp. Behind him Ilona had gone back to work near the candelabra; he could hear her quill scritching away. Caritas minded her doll, keeping one eye on the fire in the open stove. “Alfgar said you could wake him up, you know,” said Ilona, measuringly. “Any time you came in.” A small noise must have escaped Marcus, because she laughed, indulgent. “Just you. Anybody else, even a jarl, he said-- they can wait.”

Marcus was warmed thoroughly now. Even his gloves were dry. Much longer sitting here and he was going to have to go back out to piss. Time to get it done. He got up and pushed aside the curtain, entering Alfgar the Dovahkiin’s sleeping chamber.

As always, Marcus stopped to marvel at the magicka-currents that surrounded the man, waking or sleeping. Like the swirls and ripples of the stars in the great galaxy, as it rises to span the sky. Deep within, the banked-coal glow of dragon-souls. Three now, each twined about the others. Marcus' own dragon-soul, as always, began to rouse with recognition-- _drem_, Marcus whispered silently, pressing a splayed hand to his own abdomen. It coiled itself nose-to-tail and settled back down. So-- his uncle's elf had not been completely useless. _drem_ was a good dragon-word to know.

Alfgar snored, his breath raspy.

Marcus was too dry-mouthed to speak. He forced himself to swallow: “I’m... I'm here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. Bide

Alfgar-the-Dovahkiin bolted upright, his hand darting down under the bed. As Marcus' words registered, Alfgar dropped his weapon and sat back down, blinking at Marcus and his odd appearance. Alfgar's brows rose. He wiped his face with a broad hand and spoke, his voice rusty: “Bide a moment.” 

Marcus waited until it was apparent that he was the one expected to speak first. But when he opened his mouth--

“A goodly happenstance,” said Alfgar, as if the the two of them had never left off. “I thought to send for you. We dug a light-shaft and a well and found another burial-gifting, more complete than the last. There is even a skull-cloth--”

“Auryen is gone,” said Marcus, through a tight throat. “The place is locked up. He left a note saying he would be back by early springtime and hoped to open the museum then but--” Marcus had asked at the tailor-shop; Mournhold was a far ways both by ship and overland; "If winter holds him, he'll be lucky to be back by next summer." If Auryen chose to come back at all, after the incident in Solitude, with Stormcloaks threatening harm to the elves. “Some of your things got mixed up with mine,” Marcus finished, lamely. “I’ve brought them back.”

Alfgar nodded, but gave no real response to this. None that Marcus could discern.

"The work camp looks good," Marcus ventured. "Are you going to be out here awhile?"

“Tis near a month to Saturalia; if work goes apace, the town and wall will be up by the Feast of the Dead. Several of the buildings will be ready before then.” Alfgar pushed his feet into his slippers but made no effort to stand. He sneezed.

“What are you building here? I thought it was just a mine. Looks like it's going to be a lot bigger than that.”

“New settlement,” said Alfgar, and wiped his face again, this time with a cloth. He cleared his nose and throat. “Dawnstar and Morthal agree on naught.” His eyes were clear pale blue in the dim light, even more vivid now that his face was flushed. “Naught but septims. We have a charter, granted by both. Portion of the town’s income to both, once it produces. Pray this year’s peace hold.” He coughed; and then again, more deeply. The cough shook him and he passed wind. “Heh,” he said. “Privy.” Alfgar slid felted slippers into a set of wooden pattens and went outside.

Marcus stood where he was, considering what to do. In the time that Marcus spent thinking, Alfgar had returned to the tent and gone back to his work table. He called out to Marcus from the antechamber: “Come, see what we have done.” So rather than the stilted conversation Marcus had dreaded, the next half an hour was spent reviewing the Dovhakiin's site plan: here, the new smelting-yard; there the foundry; over here the tavern-and-dining-hall. “Someday there will be steadings,” Alfgar promised, and indicated with his thumb-- there, and there. “For now the workers live in common.”

“We hope to have the major buildings up and framed by springtime,” said Ilona. “We’ll take a break to get the fields and gardens in; and by then we should know if we’re going to get more settlers. There are always displaced people. Not all are bad. Skald and Ravencrone were going to be keeping an eye out for us.”

"Stepping out for a moment," said Marcus, on his own way to the privy.

It was sleeting harder now, falling in rivulets from his shoulders and streaking down the back of his neck. Marcus cursed himself for cutting his hair off. The scabs on his scalp, from the burns and blisters--Alfgar would not like it; he would not like any of this; he would hate-- Marcus rubbed at the stubble of his beard, which was equally a disaster. Too late now. No help for it. Marcus could always go onward, to Morthal. He knew no one there. The night, which had seemed so peaceful, radiated an unfriendly cold and damp. Marcus didn’t need magicka-sense to feel that the wind was shifting; it would snow again. Or worse, continue on with this ungodly muck, but now with a colder wind driving it in sheets.

The doorway into Alfgar's tent glowed golden, inviting. It would be rude for Marcus to go without leaving word. And his boots were already wet through again.

Alfgar and Ilona were happily debating the location of the bath-house; there was no agreement among the workers about where it should go, Marcus gathered. Caritas hummed tunelessly and rocked her dolly, until Illona told her to bring more wood in. Eventually Ilona gave in and agreed to Alfgar’s suggestion. His thick fingers roughed it in, swiftly. Marcus came closer to look at the sketch, and traced out for himself the channels that would run under the boardwalks. It was a very clever design; Marcus could see how it would carry the floodwaters of Hjaalmarch swamp away down into the Karth.

“Bide,” said Alfgar softly, right beside Marcus' ear. His beard tickled, as always. “Art welcome.” He smelled of hearth-smoke and mountain-flower tea, which he drank with too much honey. Marcus could, without moving, taste it. His hands went to his sides, balled to fists.

Alfgar pressed a cold disc against the inside of Marcus’ right wrist, nudging till Marcus' hand opened, and clenched about it.

“I can’t work for you,” said Marcus, painfully. “Not again,” he said. “No more contracts. Not after--” 

A dead Khajiit caretaker, innocent eyes staring empty at the sky; a lighthouse quenched; the men and women of two ships murdered, bloated bodies stacked like cordwood or floating in obscene tangles in the hold… and what those still living had endured. 

_He does not listen to me. Not really. So I cannot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Ugly

Alfgar the Dovahkiin remained untroubled: “Only for the night. Ilona stands as headman here. Speak to her if you want a job.” His teeth glinted. "I am no more than the builder."

“We held a moot." Ilona's posture displayed a pleased embarrassment. “I made the mistake of trying to sort out some of the warring factions. They decided I would be the best candidate-- to make everyone equally unhappy, I suppose.” Ilona smiled at Marcus as if he were a good prospect and not-- not what he was. “Hiring decisions are made after breakfast. Breakfast is one hour past first light, in the large tent.” And to Caritas: “It is bedtime, put the fire to bed and we will go.” She reached out, and Caritas gave her the doll. Ilona took it up into the crook of her arm just as if it had been a real baby and regarded Marcus and Alfgar. “I will try to move her along more quickly. I can see you two have much to discuss.”

“Nothing remains to discuss,” said Alfgar to Ilona. “Stay, finish your work.” To Marcus: “Come.” The faintest breath of a dragon-word hung in Alfgar the Dovahkiin's voice; the air did not quite tremble. Marcus was in the middle of rising; at the directive, he faltered. Alfgar’s hand steadied him. “Just this night,” Alfgar coaxed. “You have what you need. More than enough.”

Marcus’ hand remained clenched tight, the disapproving visage of a dead Emperor embossing his palm.

Alfgar’s voice took on a bit of an edge. “One night.” 

Marcus let himself be coaxed into the sleeping-chamber, his boots and hood and cloak tugged away; his belts and cuirass unbuckled and removed until he stood before Alfgar in no more than his shirt. 

“Damp,” said Alfgar, frowning, and removed it, too, hanging it up to dry. As he turned, Alfgar coughed again, painfully, and snuffled. Had he been ill? Marcus was trembling, standing there naked. It was not merely the cold. Alfgar’s warm palms smoothed down his arms, chasing away his goosebumps.“Go, sleep. Art not unwelcome.” A light kiss, pressed against Marcus' temple, next to his ragged crop of hair.

“Um. I’ve--” Marcus closed his eyes, rubbed at his own scruffy face with a still-fisted hand. “I’m not in any shape for--” He refused to look at Alfgar's face, to see the disappointment.

Another brush of lips against his skin; even more gentle.

“It’s all very ugly. You won’t want--” 

“Dare presume my thoughts? I have taught thee better,” Alfgar warned, with the barest trace of temper. His dragon-souls were stirring; Marcus could feel it. “Art paid and well paid at that. Get in that bed.”

At the command, Marcus found himself scrabbling up into place. Alfgar pulled the heavy linen sheet and woolen blankets and the furs up over both of them; his arm spread wide, affording Marcus the space. His will now wholly absent-- it had begun its departure when he took the coin-- Marcus turned toward Alfgar, who caught him and settled him down against that broad, thickly furred chest.

“Sleep,” Marcus was told, and he did. 

Dreamlessly.

\-------

Marcus woke up upset, because there was talk about him, in the room just beyond. There was always talk, no matter what Marcus did or did not do. What had he done to himself this time; where had he been; what had he stolen, when they were not looking? What filthy practices was he bringing into their house? At least this time it was just his elves, complaining. He could not hear human voices.

Marcus' hands sleeked down himself in practiced gestures, as he touched and examined his own skin, inch by inch, from the soles of his feet to the top of his scalp. When things got bad, this became his morning routine. His fingers prodding and pulling and squeezing, he checked himself. A couple of the strange elves wandered in to gawk. What is that, self-worship? wondered a violet-eyed lady. It looks ridiculous. Odd sort of self-pleasure, murmured the old priest. Wouldn’t he be more comfortable in the bed?

Marcus ignored them. His friends knew. Erdi, who liked to mock him, had seen this and said nothing, beyond a meaningful look. Lisette had been treated to this little performance more than once, and had done nothing more than sigh. They understood. None of their patrons wanted damaged merchandise; and so if there were some defect becoming apparent, Marcus had better know about it, right away. And sometimes he was not himself, and did not feel things as he ought. No new injuries today, save for a few minor scratches and a line of bruises on his shin where he had tripped over a gnarled root in the swamp. The scabs from the burn-marks were still healing, and so were the bruises on his face. No new blemish or other cause for concern. Nothing had happened in Alfgar's bed last night but sleep; Marcus could read that tension in his own body well enough. 

Marcus winced, as he touched his rough scalp again, but that had been there a little while now. A couple of days? A week? Why had he told Ksvana to shave it all off? His body- and beard-hair had grown to be a disaster; the stubble gone thick and coarse. The thought of going and taking care of it with his razor was suddenly revulsive. It was all ugly, ugly. Mercifully, Marcus did not yet need to bathe-- so that was not today’s battle to be fought. A quick wash might be good, but there was no wash-basin in Alfgar’s sleeping-room. Marcus put on trews and shirt and poked his head into the main room of the tent.

No one was present. 

As his eyes registered this, his elves' voices thinned to nothing and they faded, still complaining. Marcus' mage-sense shimmered.

Marcus glanced about, because there was something else magickal in this tent, that he had not noticed last night, and finding it was a welcome distraction. Ah. A small cloth-wrapped lump was sparking off magicka. from that jumble of items in the crate by the far corner. An artifact, or a mere soul gem fragment? None of these grave-findings had been properly sorted. Marcus would have to do this before these things were sent out, or Auryen Morellus would have a fit.

Assuming Auryen Morellus came back.

There was a wash-basin standing nearby, but a couple of socks had been draped over it to dry. There was no water to be had, so Marcus got dressed and put on his still slightly damp cloak and went outdoors, into the thick wet snow. The coin, of course, had made its way into his pocket. It was of a denomination that made him wince. Too much. But it did not matter. 

Marcus had not earned it, so he would not be keeping it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	9. Keep Working

Marcus was a little late for breakfast. The tent was mostly empty, but there was still the crusty dregs of the porridge near the hearth. He took a dish, and stirred hot water into the groats, since the goat milk was already used up. There was plenty of honeycomb to crush into the porridge, so it was good. Once Marcus finished and brought his bowl back, he saw a couple of preserved eggs still sitting in a dish. Marcus took them along, flicking the bits of shell away as he ate and walked.

Ilona was supervising a foundation-dig on the other end of the site. When she saw Marcus, she had one of the diggers give her a hand up out of the pit, and wiped her hands on her leather trousers. “We’ll get this building up before hard-freeze,” she said with satisfaction, limping over to him.

“Which one is this?” Marcus asked, rubbing his hands together to rid them of egg-crumbles.

“It will become one of the bunk-houses for now,” Ilona said. “Next year once the houses are built it will become the inn. What have you decided?”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re looking for,” said Marcus. “Couldn’t say I’m good at heavy work. I might be able to manage, given time to adjust.”

“We have no healer as yet,” said Ilona.

“I’m not particularly good at that either,” said Marcus. “But what I can do is better than nothing, if nothing is what you have. And I can help with pretty much anything else. What do you need me to do today?”

They reached an agreement and shook on it, and that was it. Marcus was in. No one was ill or injured today, and that was fine. Marcus' magicka had been dull and sluggish since his time in the swamp and the work he’d had to do on the former hostages and the elf. Overuse. It would take time to come back to normal. Marcus didn’t mind physical labor. He was happy enough to get it.

Alfgar was here, there, and everywhere supervising the various projects. The Dovahkiin's attention was wholly occupied, so he never felt the coin when Marcus slipped it back into his pocket.

“I might be a whore. And a thief,” Marcus had said to the Dovahkiinn, when the two of them had reached their first agreement. “But never yet the two together. If you pay me, I’ll give you good value.” Had looked the Dovahkiin straight in those blue, blue eyes. “Whatever you want me to be, I can be,” Marcus had promised. “Whoever you want.”

Would that were true. It had not been true last night. So Marcus had no hesitation giving up the coin. It hadn’t been earned. It wasn’t his to keep. And just now, no one was asking Marcus to be anyone. He did not know who he was supposed to be.

So Marcus began to do as he’d been told, digging in the dirt, helping the other workers shift the earth before hard-freeze came and doing so would become impossible. In the evening he washed his hands and face and arms, and came to sit at table, eating and listening. No one took note of Marcus, so whatever he had done to himself-- it had worked. None of the men-- it was almost never the women who were a problem, even here in Skyrim-- said anything at all, or even looked at him, the right way or the wrong way.

Marcus did not know whether to be pleased about that or upset. _Was_ it what he had done to himself? He should have done it earlier.

He mopped up the last of his soup with his bread and stacked a few of nearby empty plates and carried them back up towards the kitchen, to be scoured clean. A couple of the other workers murmured approval of his courtesy. But it was nothing. He could not tell whether they knew who he was or what he had been to their Dovahkiin. Had he seen any of these people before? His hands ached, and his back, and his thighs. He could not remember the last time he had done any work like this. Anvil, maybe. After the Khajiit caravan had gone onto the moonpath without him. Before he had fallen in with the Argonians. Marcus was glad there were no Argonians present. That would be bad. For Caritas, especially.

Marcus was relieved to see that there were separate cots in the bunkhouse rather than blankets on the floor or piles of hay. He took the cot given. Marcus was too tired to care about whether there would be trouble, but there was none. After a few days, he was able to discern that this was Ilona’s doing as much as it was the Dovahkiin’s; Ilona brooked no nonsense, even dismissing one of the workers when the man gave her guff over some imagined slight. A real transgression, Marcus sensed, would have drawn an even more vigorous response.

Alfgar the Dovahkiin did not seek him out, beyond a brief consultation on the first day. Marcus could not help him. Marcus could do nothing for a cold. Any healing he could try would only make matters worse-- would increase the congestion and the nose-running and the coughing. Marcus was no good at anything to do with an infection. Distantly, Marcus wondered if he had killed his uncle's elf, with his poor attempts at healing. The Khajiit mage had scowled, snipping at him about the dangers posed by untrained healers. Marcus wished that the Justiciar had died-- that would have been for the best-- but Erdi would be so unhappy. And Marcus' uncle; well, Ahtar would be angry. And there was never any action that Marcus could take or not take that would not injure that man somehow. Things had always fallen out that way. So Marcus would stay away.

Marcus was learning not to rely on what his ears heard; and so he turned to look. 

No one else could see Marcus' odd wounded elves; so by now Marcus knew them to be ghosts; or some sort of magickal presence; or the mad god's lie. Someone else was talking to Marcus in a louder voice, right beside his ear; but because no one else was looking in Marcus' direction, it could only be a ghost or a god. When Marcus looked out of the corner of his eye, he saw no one. It was a god, and what it said would all be lies. Lies did not require Marcus' full attention. He kept right on working, moving small piles of gravel with his shovel. Ilona had given him this task of digging in the dirt, and it was vastly more important than listening to the gods.

The gods lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
